


A-flat

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds them all, creating charts and graphs within his head, while instincts and habits he thought long faded take over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A-flat

The first time it's accidental, a graze he wishes he could take back a half-second later. He doesn't like to be the cause of that flinch, too close to the wince he's taught himself how to see in meetings or on missions.

It's useful as a way to rein himself in, if nothing else, and a constant reminder he won't let himself forget.

The second time, though, that's not accidental. He doesn't like the memories of _why_ he needs a keeper, doesn't like the idea that he's caught on a leash, restricted, or _will be_ should he go too far. It's probably all in his own head, nothing to do with reality, but it plagues him, makes him froth and doubt, and he brings his fingers back to the swirling purple-black bruise and _presses_.

The groan he expects. It hurts, after all, and is supposed to, a petty punishment for his petty issues.

What he doesn't expect is the way John's breath catches in his throat, eyes turning into green explosions, while his cock twitches red and wanting.

From a single touch.

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Um. Sorry?"

John shifts, rocking in the cup of Rodney's hips. "For what?" he asks, a lazy drawl. There's nothing hidden or ulterior in his voice, at least, nothing a close examination yields. "Hm?"

Licking his lips, Rodney doesn't bother answering just finds another bruise, this one half a day older than the first and losing the glossy sheen of freshly broken capillaries, and rubs his thumb over it. Lightly, at first, a distracting tease to see if his hypothesis is correct. When John moans again, head falling back to pant his enjoyment, Rodney repeats the motion, harder, then harder still.

"Fuck," John breathes, shifting eagerly. "Yeah. God, you have the best hands, Rodney."

It's not the first time Rodney's heard this particular exaltation, but now it takes on newer meanings.

"So you've said." He finds another bruise, on the thigh where the muscle is dense and deep, pressing down hard enough that the skin around the depression turns white.

John's response is to jerk upward, rubbing his cock against nothing at all, the tip beading while he pants.

He catalogs each of the bruises as he finds them -- how old, anywhere from a few hours to fading remnants of a week or so before; how painful, since the new bruise on John's chest, right above his nipple, earns a sigh but not the jerk-thrust that means _more_ ; method of creation, sticks and stones of exercise gone rough, or the painfully familiar habits of friends turned enemies and dangers shadowing every decision they make.

He finds them all, creating charts and graphs within his head, while instincts and habits he thought long faded take over. He's _playing_ , he realizes with a painful jolt, John writhing and gasping with each new chord or scale. Songs he'd thought gone and forgotten are played on each darkened mark on John's skin, sounds trilling around them.

Rodney knows he's panting, roughly shoving his cock against the groove of John's ass as he loses himself in the press and release, the patterns of his own pounding heart and John's rough moans and breathy, arching gasps.

"Yeah," John lets the word draw out, thrusting his belly forward into the double-press of both of Rodney's thumbs. "Like that, please.

John doesn't beg, when they have sex. Not usually. He's too quiet, a lifetime of training, or when the words come, they're too garbled to be intelligible. But tonight his eyes are half closed, only the barest slivers visible, and it opens gates formerly locked tight.

"More. Rodney, more."

It has to hurt. Rodney _knows_ it hurts, because his touch leaves new marks dappled along side old, yellow and green darkening back to red and black, the whorls broader, deeper after Rodney releases them. It has to be agony, and all John does is rock and keen, whispering for more.

Rodney doesn't like pain with his sex. Pain is to tell the mind that something is wrong, something should be fixed, and that John is nearly mindless with it, cock red and flat against his belly, scares Rodney more than a little.

He doesn't stop, though. He's not sure he can, pressing down harder and longer, biting his own lip swollen as he contemplates new bruises to create and touch.

The tempo of John's heart goes up as Rodney plays, Mozart a patina over his skin. He's rocking back and forth, the stretch and release of his skin as beautiful as the finger prints Rodney knows he's leaving behind, and suddenly it's not enough. Not _nearly_ enough.

"Up," he demands, terse in his excitement. John doesn't seem to mind, though, pushing himself up and forward so he's hovering over the length of Rodney's torso, faces too close together.

Rodney suppresses the urge to bite, gripping the base of his own cock in one hand, lining John up with the other. "Now," he orders, a discordant grunting against the harmony of their breathing. "Now, now, fucking get _on_ me."

The dissonance works, oddly enough, or maybe it's just that John's long sigh as he sinks down blocks out any lingering flaws. He's hot and slick from their prior playing, yielding to gravity and Rodney's girth, settling into the cup of Rodney's hips as if he belongs there.

No one has fit against him as well as John has. Rodney is no stranger to sex, a variety of different shapes and sizes pressed up against his own expanding bulk, but none of them, not even the so-perfect Samantha Carter, will ever work as well as John does for him, now, like this.

He groans, jerking uselessly into John's tight heat, lacking leverage. "Move," he says.

John's looking at him, now, heavy eyes accompanying a wicked smile that tilts only half of his lush mouth. "M'comfy," he responds, sounding drunk and slow.

Rodney's hands flash, finding the bruises he mentally has named middle C and one of the sharps, biting into smooth skin.

John cries out, entire body practically writhing in reaction, breath gone, cock so _hard_ \-- and then he's moving, into Rodney's hands, then up and back down, settling hard and rough over Rodney's cock.

So. Good.

The pattern holds no matter what notes Rodney plays. The most complicated chords only modify John's breathing, the swallowing, desperate noises he makes as he sways into and then up, circling into the pain Rodney gives him.

They've always had good sex, but this -- this is so much more.

Rodney plays, fucking and letting John fuck onto him, going through every piece he can dredge up, each note sinking into John's greedy, greedy skin, always pushed forward in hopes of more. Rodney plays until he is sodden with sweat, his fingers beginning to cramp, his cock almost _knotting_ with his desperate need to come. He can't, though, not yet. Not until he finds that final harmony, the one strain that will make John break up under his hands, fizzling into nothing but nerve endings.

He can hear himself keening with each breath, winded in a way that's never happened, no matter how athletic John's wanted before -- and maybe that's the key. John isn't driving him now, isn't what John wants, for all it's John's pleasure that started this. _Rodney_ is driving himself, twisting up bits and pieces he thought faded into obscurity, shaking off dust as he pushes them towards air, towards him, offering up everything he is because if this isn't enough, if all the dark, fractured flaws and bright, glowing skill isn't enough, he doesn't know what he’ll have to find that _is_.

He's afraid to know.

John is slamming onto him, now, new bruises decorating new places, Rodney's hips and thighs aching in counterpoint, and all he wants is more. Harder. Faster. _Not enough_. Not ever enough.

He doesn't know when John's eyes open, blinking away sweat-laden strands. All he knows is that John is looking at him, fathomless and full of questions Rodney doesn't know the language of, let alone the right answers to. John hasn't stopped moving, hasn't stopped begging for more, Rodney's cock, Rodney's hands, Rodney's _pain_ \--

The urge to laugh bubbles up, sharper than the most painful truth.

He grabs John's hips, not caring that ten new recognizable bruises will join the rest, forcing him all the way down, all the way still. John fights -- always fighting, no matter how subversive the method -- but Rodney is strong and he doesn't let go until he's certain John will stay.

Then, only then, does Rodney wrap his fingers around John's cock, playing new melodies as he strokes up and down, almost too lightly to be anything but a tease, thumbing over the head with a gentle flick.

John comes hard enough that his entire body shudders, tightening around Rodney's cock almost unbearably. Rodney ignores it, though, watching each shudder or back-bending arch, exulting in new knowledge. _His_ knowledge.

Only when John is finished, breath caught, body finally starting to cool, does Rodney find the very first bruise. He touches it lightly, a butterfly brush, and comes with stars bursting behind his eyes.


End file.
